I got a load of chalk, felt-tip markers and paint from friends one Christmas in a thinly-veiled attempt to get me involved with their plan to vandalise the toilets at the local park. My downfall: Signing my name. Tell us your stories of anti-social behaviour.

Fun with fluorescent paint
Many years ago I stood on my mate Mick's shoulders one night and neatly painted "FUCK" in meter high white chemo fluorescent paint letters, high up on the unblemished white wall of Plimmer's Steps in my old hometown of Wellington, New Zealand.Then for good measure I hopped down and wrote "Fuck" again in black biro a few more times at eye level on the same white wall. Naturally outraged nocturnal users of this busy inner city thoroughfare complained frequently to the city council and local newspapers about this luminous desecration, and on my way to work I frequently observed grouchy looking council workmen obediently painting over my eye level graffiti, along with the other inevitable felt-tip epithets that sullied their pristine white wall....at eyelevel. Being white-on-white my far grander effort further up the wall went unnoticed by the council workers and their taskmasters, who only worked during daylight hours, and therefore never bathed in its ghostly night time glow. The council kept getting an undiminished stream of complaints about my vandalism, and I kept adding to their misery by dropping by and adding a few more red herring black biro "fucks" every time they painted over the wall - always at eye level.They were completely baffled. Why was there such a big fuss over a few tiny swear words in biro? It took two years and a swimming pool full of white paint before they finally cottoned on.

I like to think that this subliminal swearword served as the inspiration for John Carpenter's 1988 cult sci-fi classic movie "They Live,” but it probably wasn't.
(Brian O'Blivioncontains hazardous material, Mon 11 Oct 2010, 11:44,
9 replies)

As a teacher...
I deal with only the most petty of vandalism. Our school clings to the fringes of a frightfully middle class town, and so our clientele are fairly well behaved as a rule. However, the lure of producing a crudely drawn member on any available surface is a universal one, and even the most straight-laced of children can only hold out for so long.

It was last term when I spotted it, right near the end of the school year. It was proudly displayed on a year 9's book: slap bang on the front cover of his book. A magnificent specimen of genital anatomy, a vision in black marker pen, engorging and enriching the whole page. Truly, this thing was superb. However, it did pose somewhat of a dilemma for me.

As a teacher, the urge to chastise was strong: the wretched child had vandalised his book, and should be punished. As a human being (and b3tan), the urge to encourage this behaviour was almost as strong. How to reconcile these two opposing forces in the universe?

Simple: I am a science teacher. "You will label that half-finished... *cough*... "diagram", and label it properly, using scientific vocabulary. You will not make any mistakes on it, and you will complete it for homework. If you do make any mistakes, I will send the whole diagram home in an envelope for your Mum to correct for you."

It was the best piece of work he produced all year. I hope he treasures it.
(Serotonicitywas a naughty boy on..., Sun 10 Oct 2010, 23:07,
3 replies)

Wasn't me but...
...a friend of mine came home one night to find the wall of her block of flats covered in graffiti. She rang the local council to report it and was told that, unless it was racially or sexually offensive, there was nothing they could do.At 3am she was outside, armed with a spraycan.The next day she rang again to say that someone had painted "XXXX Council are a bunch of queer n*gger cunts" on her wall and could they do something about it?
(JudgeysanFreakishly small hands, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 13:01,
1 reply)

Googly Eyes
I purchased a job lot of sticky backed googly eyes off ebay while bored. I'm now adding them to posters whenever I get an opportunity. Click I like this if you want to see pictures.
(Pete_G, Tue 12 Oct 2010, 19:46,
9 replies)

Possible urban myth...
In the toilets of a large company, somebody put a sign on the mirror above the wash basin saying "THINK!". A few days later, some wag put a sign above the soap dispenser saying "THOAP!".
(Vigilante Manweeps because you're stupid., Sat 9 Oct 2010, 19:22,
2 replies)

This sort of counts, and it's too entertaining a story not to tell it
First of all, this did not happen to me. I was told the story by a mate, and frankly I have no reason or inclination not to believe him (it's funnier if it's true). Sit as comfortably as you can and allow me to entertain you with the parable of... the ULTIMATE DANGERWANK.

I'd like to assume that you all know what a DangerWank is (I think the capitalisation gives it a certain quality, like it should come with a sidekick called Penfold... I'm sure Richard Gere would appreciate that), but for those who don't, it's when you nip off to the communal toilets at work and have a crafty one off the wrist. Brightens the day, apparently. Gives one something to look forward to. And it gets you off the phone for five minutes. This is a guideline rather than a rule; it's really up to the individual how long they masturbate for. Might be significantly less than five minutes. I won't be stood outside the cubicle with a stopwatch or anything. Don't know where you got that idea.

Anyway, my mate, who we shall dub "Dean" (for twas his name) decides that this isn't particularly dangerous, and one day whilst bored elects to develop the idea to a level of risk appropriate to the name. Don't want Trades Descriptions getting involved, do we. To elaborate, Dean worked for a relatively small company, in the contact centre for a website that sold photography gear an' stuff, and with only 20-odd people in the building the toilets were a one-room affair rather than a succession of cubicles. As such, there was no way that a DangerWank involved running the risk of someone in the next cubicle hearing you. Unless your cum noise was so gratuitous that it could be heard through the wall in the girls' toilet. Now there's a thought.

How to make the DangerWank truly dangerous, pondered Dean. What he came up with makes me truly envious, I wish I could lay claim to having devised this myself, although I'm bloody glad someone else road-tested it, for reasons that will become horribly, horribly clear.

One afternoon, Dean went to the toilet

Locked the door

Whipped out his John Thomas and gave it a few preparatory strokes...

and called the office hunt number from his mobile. Seriously. Oh, it gets better.

He explained that he'd locked the door, and was now unable to unlock it. He needed someone to come and break it down (this is the vandalism part, don't expect the story to get back on-topic after this, it doesn't). He even sped up the dolphin-flogging as he talked to one of his colleagues to ensure the appropriate level of sweaty panic entered his voice. After hanging up, he continued his disgusting act of self-pollution, the concept of the Ultimate DangerWank having been established - he had to finish before they broke the door down.

He did. In fact, he finished about 30 seconds thereafter. Too much groundwork done.

But now he faces a predicament. Does he unlock the door, wander back to his desk and explain that he'd failed in the relatively simple task of undoing a bolt? Or wait for the cavalry, which would at least keep him off the phone for a few minutes? No contest. But what to do to alleviate the boredom?

He had another wank.

I know what you're thinking, but he was only 18 at the time, plenty of get-up-and-go, these young'uns. A minute or so in, he hears voices outside the door. This spurs him on, unsurprisingly. What follows was more worrying.

The frame of the door shakes as a shoulder is thrown against the other side. And again. The bolt holds firm. A third and fourth attempt are heard. The bolt shifts. It's on its way out. He's got to finish. Not so easy the second time around, is it? He's in trouble here. He needs inspiration. He needs to conjure the memory of the first time he saw Salma Hayek in From Dusk Til Dawn. He needs to think about the arse on Rachel from Marketing. It's not working! That door could go at any minute, bursting open to reveal the burly form of Steve from Accounts! He needs a miracle...

In fact, what helped Dean across the finish line in time was the thought of big, sweaty men throwing themselves bodily against a locked door in order to get at him. He's gay. Did I mention that? Apparently this was something of a "turning point" for him. Prior to this he was (mostly) all about the poontang. Not any more. I am prepared to accept that the chronology of Dean's sexuality may have been adjusted slightly to fit the story, but you have to admit it makes for a hell of a yarn to spin the grandkids he's ruled himself out of having.

So, in conclusion, the Ultimate DangerWank; it's risky as hell, results in damage to company property and may inadvertantly drive you to deviant lifestyles.

RIGHTS FOR GNOMES!
One night, in my younger years, after a couple a group of us decided to go out for a late night walk. This was back in the days before late licencing and the streets were generally completely deserted after midnight and it was now about 2am.

We took with us, a large ball of blue tack, a pair of scissors, a pot of cocktail sticks, pens and a big stack of post-it notes.

We headed for an out of the way area called Roseland Park where people have nice gardens and all try hard to keep them that way. They are also a tasteless bunch who adorn there front lawns with many a garden ornament, Using all the ninja skills we had acquired in our GCSE ninja skills lesson earlier that week we snuck in to the first garden, picked up a garden gnome and placed it carefully on the doorstep and using our art skills that we had also acquired in the ninja skills lesson crafted a fine mini banner that read “I hate fishing!” We removed the wooden fishing rod and replaced it with the banner taking care to not cause any permanent damage to the gnome.

In the second garden the gnomes banners angrily protested the silly hats they had been forced to wear by their human overlords. We went house to house getting a little braver each time until we were going to houses with large numbers of gnomes in the garden and creating a protest march up the pathway. One house had two huge stone lions on the gate posts. We placed them outside the front door with a note that read “Can we come in please? It’s cold out here.” We went house to house in this close nit area and must have found about 20-30 gardens with gnomes ready to be moved.

We returned home when it started to get light and went to bed which meant we never got to see the faces of the confused homeowners that opened the doors in the morning to find their gnomes protesting but I like to think that they still talk about it 14 years later.
(Peej, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 14:33,
7 replies)

The finest nerd graffiti mankind has ever created
What with Oxford being interplanetary in its oddness and B3ta a lawless land of nerdery, I thought you might appreciate this:

Behind my building, somebody graffiti-ed ‘TCP’ in 4 foot tall letters. Although it was clearly a tag of some hoodied yoot with stabby fingers and cider budget, the next day ‘/IP’ was written next to it.

Over the following glorious autumn weeks, the wall was filled with (quite specifically) Internet Protocols. UDP! IMAP! FTP! ICMP! Telnet! POP3! Etc! Some pedantic nerd soul went so far as to classifying them as Application / Transport / Internet / Link. It really brought a tear to the weary IT professional’s eye.

This wall was a beautiful mess of geekness, until one day somebody took a spraycan and wrote over this perfect artistic and intellectual storm of protocols with the word ‘F*GGOTS’.

The dream was over. The council covered the inflammatory word and all that preceded it.

My favorite Joke
Think I've posted about this before as a reply but I'll post it again as it's great. My friend was in a cubical at the London College of Speech and Drama when he saw this little gem on the wall.

How many Fucks does it take to shit a cunt?

Three, one to shit the cunt and the others to wipe the fuckpiss off my spastic.

Best Ever GraffittiOn the wall of a foul smelling bog in Kings Cross station was the epithet,"I'm 9 inches long and 4" round"Somebody had added with hilarious results,"are you a ferret?"Pure class.
(insignificantsnivellinglittleturdI Like Peas, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 16:49,
1 reply)

The biggest Cunt I ever did see.
I did some ski seasons in my early twenties, working behind a hotel bar to pay for 5 months of hitting the slopes every day and in that time I witnessed an act of genius that stuck with me.

The bar I worked in was opposite the main slope so we had lights that shined different coloured shapes and patterns onto the slope at night from the front of the bar. The unit that provided this array of Technicolor worked by having about twenty metal discs on a revolving mechanism, each one had the shape required cut out of the middle of it for the light to shine through, each disc span around and changed colour for about five seconds or so then it went to the next shape.

This is where the hotel handyman decided to show his disdain for the management toward the end of the season, he took a sheet of metal and cut out a disc the right size, and over the course of a whole day used a very fine drill bit to cut out the word cunt in the disc, it worked as expected, projecting CUNT thirty feet high and about sixty feet wide on the opposing slope, right in front of the hotel bar, restaurant and the guest room balconies. making it the largest, most colourful and most ingenious piece of vandalism I have ever seen.

The best bit was people used to notice it, look away, shake their heads in disbelief/mention it to a friend then look back, by which time the image had changed.

Possibly an urban legend
Following a defeat of the All Blacks at the hands of the Wallabies, a disgruntled Kiwi fan showed his displeasure by writing the following on the wall of a bathroom at the stadium:

AUSTRALIA SUX

Unfortunately for the hapless sheep-shagger, an Australian fan then followed this up with:

Individual foam party!
For those of you who don't know how a foam fire extinguisher works (or at least the old ones as this jolly jape dates back to the late 80's) its a bit like this.

There are 2 separate chambers in the extinquisher both filled with water treated with different chemicals. The 2 liquids are mixed when the extinquisher is set off, the chemicals produce huge amounts of foam at fairly high pressure (enough to shoot out of the hose at a fair rate of knots anyway).

You may wonder where this is going, although the more wicked amongst you may already have an inkling!

Having got hold of a number of packets of chemical mix from a mate who was an RAF fireman we decided it needed to be put to good use.

The target : The Great Western Pub, public bar gents bogs, Cardiff

The method : bung up the pan with a big big wad of toilet tissue and mix chem pack one in the toilet pan. (this prevents the mix flushing away before the foam starts). Then mix chem pack two into the cistern, stir well and retreat.

Having primed the trap so to speak, we sat back and waited for some poor soul to wander into the toilets, waited for a minute and followed in.

Target one was just going for a piss and looked a bit taken aback to be followed into the bogs by a load of hairy arsed drunks, but after a bit more patience, target two entered the drop zone.

Trying to stifle sniggers we waited, and were soon rewarded with a big FLUSH .... follwed quickly by a slowly building fizzing noise and a strangled scream as the victim began to thrash around trying to open the door.

A few seconds later a dishevelled wild eyed foamy mess stumbled out of the door with his trousers round his knees gibbering slightly before making a hasty semi naked exit.

It looked like the foam got to almost waist height before he managed to open the door, not quite the "to the ceiling" job we hoped for, but enough to get us banned for 6 months when the landlord found out who it was!
(RadGDrinking Mojitos in the sun, Wed 13 Oct 2010, 15:55,
1 reply)

snow way to behave
We had a bowling green near where i lived as a kid. It was absolutely pristine. To the greenkeeper known to everyone as Old Charlie this was not merely a job it was a calling. Unfortunately it was also Old Charlies calling to be the most cantankerous old bastard I’ve ever met. Charlie and I had regular dealings as one of his other duties was to look after the crazy golf course in the adjoining park, a duty he deeply resented so he was never pleasant about handing out putters and balls to ‘little buggers’ like me.

One crisp morning I awoke to find it had been snowing heavily all night, beautiful deep fluffy snow. Soon enough I ended up over at park where I spotted the bowling green. It was quite a site: a perfect square of 6 inch deep pristine snow. The combination of fresh snow and mirror flat surface mean rolling balls of snow for a snowman was a pure joy. The short clipped grass meant the snow rolled up like a carpet to leave a wonderful bright green stripe beneath. I soon abandoned the notion of a snowman in favour of rolling the biggest snowball I could manage. And I do mean big – eventually when I was forced to stop because of the sheer size and weight of the thing. The fucker was as tall as me and only the flat surface and sheer puffing and groaning determination had allowed me to roll it that big. It was then an evil icy plan was hatched.

I’d have loved to have seen Charlies face when he arrived to see his beloved bowling green a bright square of grass in an otherwise Narnia like landscape. The green was completely bare, except of course for the neat triangle of six stonkingly massive snowballs in the centre.

I even had the cheek to go back a day later sit and watch him curse and struggle trying to dismantle the now frosted, rock hard heavy as a bastard handiwork I had left for him. They had partially melted, slumped together then refroze during the night so it had become impossible to simply roll them off the green. So Old Charlies only option was to dismantle what must have been well over a ton of ice and snow using nothing more than a shovel and wheelbarrow. With me throwing in helpful comments like – can I still play crazy golf in the snow Charlie?
(spimf™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 7 Oct 2010, 13:37,
Reply)

how i stopped the local kids writing graffiti about me
in my last flat, i had a reputation as something of a mental case. i promoted this illusion, mainly so the local kids would leave me alone and stop kicking footballs at my windows. this seemed to be doing the trick, until kyle and his family moved into the street.now, this odious little crotchfruit had already been expelled from one school and had his family kicked out of their previous house. not bad for a 10-year-old. kyle decided that, as i was VERY fat, i must be mocked at every opportunity. hardly a day went past without this little cumwaste shouting such pearlers as "oi! fatty!" at me. hoping that he'd grow tired of it without a reaction, i ignored him.one day, however, i happened to walk past a wall about 100 yards away from my block of flats, when something caught my eye. scrawled in large, childish letters was the phrase "smash monkey wears big knickers"well, duh.as i was on my way to bingo(sad, i know), i had pens in my bag. whipping one out(ooer), i added underneath "of course i wear big knickers, have you seen the size of my arse?"strangely, kyle never shouted names at me again after that, nor did any of his mates.
(Smash Monkeyis going off the rails on a crazy train, Fri 8 Oct 2010, 18:14,
21 replies)

Whodunnit!??
Not exactly vandalism but...a few years ago in Manchester there were some really strong gale force winds that managed to knock down trees, buildings and (strangely enough)... a small Chinese woman. Large parts of our roof came loose as well and at the time I was living in an old Victorian house with about 6 other people, the landlady got into a complete panic that one of the tiles might come loose and clonk one of us on the head whilst walking up the drive, so until she could get the builders round she borrowed some "crime scene" tape from one of her friends on the force in an attempt to stop unsuspecting visitors from walking up the drive and meeting an untimely death. Strange enough in itself, but the cherry on the cake was walking out of the house one morning on my way to work to find someone had drawn this…

I love Manchester for so many reasons but the biggest and bestest part of it for me is the people and the brilliant sense of humor; I never wanted the rain to wash that off!
(misshotlips, Fri 8 Oct 2010, 10:58,
Reply)

Pearoast
I assume my school was not particularly unusual in the fact that everyone always spent hours talking about what jokes they were going to pull on the last day, but the plans never seemed to materialise. All previous ones that had been done, had occurred years ago, masterminded by a friend of a friend of a guy who someone had once met.

During one of these conversations the idea came up that was just too good to not do. While we still had a year before we left, we decided that this could be used to our advantage: we would both get to see the full effects as they unfolded, and would evade punishment as it would be blamed on the students that were leaving. The dastardly plan was to create a piece of artwork on the front lawn. Being highly sensible, mature students of an all boys school, the subject of the art piece was never in any doubt.

One maths lesson later (the actual work being cast aside in an unusual show of enthusiasm for geometry) we managed to calculate the appropriate dimensions and therefore the surface area of grass that would need to be killed. Sainsbury's was visited and enough weed killer to kill 50 times the calculated area of grass was procured. The mission was all set and ready to go.

We returned that night. While a few of us mixed the weedkiller with water, someone scaled the security fencing, climbed up the side of the tech block and turned the PIR on the security light to face the wall. By this time the rest of us were ready. Some took up watch positions, whilst others created the actual artwork. Nails and string were used to mark out the outline and the weed killer was applied. We went home happy in the knowledge that the mission had been accomplished without a hitch.

The library happened to be on the first floor and had windows overlooking the front lawn. Over the course of the next week or so, it was periodically invaded by a dozen or so teenagers running in, laughing at a slightly yellowing patch on the lawn then running back out. After a while the reason for this became slowly more obvious.

The caretakers first plan to return the lawn to its former glory was to simply get some blokes from the council to mow a rectangle around it to the mud, then replant it and let it all grow back. He had not accounted for the amount of weed killer used. The artwork slowly reappeared, this time a bare dirt cdc where before there had been a yellowed grass cdc. His plan B was brought into action- dig up the grass and re-turf aforementioned rectangle. Lets just say that pathclear applied at 50 times the recommended concentration doesn't give up that easily.

After a few months of making it more and more obvious, he finally succeeded. This was managed by digging up and replacing not only the turf, but also the mud underneath.

We thought that it was all over, but little did we know of the Microsoft plane flying silently overhead.

A couple of years later a story suddenly appeared in the local paper. Being a teenager, I was of course invincible and keen to get my 15 minutes of fame; I decided that I might as well phone them up and give them an interview. The next day I was on page three of the local rag, with a picture of my massive cock.

The police did eventually phone me up and arrange a convenient time to arrest me. After a few hours, that consisted mainly of the police and my legal aid solicitor cracking knob gag after knob gag, I was officially reprimanded- a stern looking sergeant sat me down and told what I had done was very naughty and I was not to do it again.

semi vandalism
I was once studying on a very primitive network at school, a load of BBC micros (or something like that) connected to a printer. Was not really taking much notice of what the teacher was saying, but typed in what I was told.

Then completely lost interest, and typed in a few of my own commands;

10 print "fuck off ";20 goto 10

Turned to my mate sitting next to me, and said 'hey, check this out'. Run the program, nothing happened. Nothing . . . Meantime, two other things did happen.

Printer goes beserk.

Teacher goes to printer, looks at what's happenening and bellows 'Who is station 11???'. Well, seems the stuff I was typing earlier, which I wasn't paying attention to, was to set all screen output to the printer.

Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off Fuck off
(Not Pineapple anymore, Mon 11 Oct 2010, 11:49,
2 replies)

When i was very much younger...
About 14 or so, back in the mid-80's, and at school in a small town, we used to do the usual routine of hanging around in the evenings and getting drunk on cheap cider and thunderbirds in a graveyard. To liven weekends up, we used to have an informal competition on fridays, where we all chucked a quid or so into a pot, and the person who stole the 'best' thing and bought it back to the graveyard just before the offy shut got to spend it all on booze.

It started off relatively innocently enough, with garden gnomes, traffic cones and the odd roadsign etc, with the stuff usually even getting put back at the end of the night, until it got out of hand.

One evening, i came back (with something like a sack of spuds in a wheelbarrow, or something equally pointless like that) to find that someone had stolen an entire, freshly laid turf lawn from some poor sod's garden, and re-laid it neatly on the car park that backed onto our meeting place, complete with table, chairs and an umbrella. That made me take it up a notch.

The final straw, after which we had to call it off, was when i was prowling a building site, looking for something interesting, and noted that some dozy prat of a builder had left the keys still in a lovely, bright yellow JCB. Seeing a golden opportunity to win a bottle of cheap vodka, i decided that'd be good for a win, started it up and swiftly learned to drive it. Badly. Very badly as it turned out, even for a 14 year old, JCB's are bloody complicated things to drive.

After driving it through through the fence, and onto a road, i got it all the way to the car park, trailing bits of chainlink fence, before not managing to stop it in time, and embedding three feet into the graveyard wall. After that, we had to start meeting somewhere else, as that car park had a police car sat in it for weeks afterwards...

I won the vodka though, and for years afterwards, was known as 'the guy that nicked the JCB'.
(dieselmonkey, Fri 8 Oct 2010, 15:52,
Reply)

My Mother Made Me A Lesbian
...read a large graffito here in Brighton.

Some wag had written underneath it: "If I give her the wool, will she make me one too?"

Banana skin/school pearoast
In about 1972, during a little pre-class skylarking, I used a ruler to catapult a banana skin across the classroom.

Instead of hitting my mate square in the face as intended, it flew upwards and wrapped itself around a metal roof girder. We were on the top floor and the room had a high pitched ceiling so I couldn't possibly reach it.

I spent the lesson in awed fascination, waiting for the skin to slip off and land on the teacher's head immediately below.

It didn't though, not that lesson or the next or ever. It stayed on its beam, growing blacker and more shrivelled as time went on.

Years later I visited the classroom when my own kids were pupils there and saw the banana skin, painted over but still recognisable to those in the know. Well, me. Never told a soul.

A few years after that during renovations the roof was boxed in, probably to improve insulation, ensuring that the 'nana skin will remain undisturbed forever.
(Juan Quaris clinging to her front teeth on, Mon 11 Oct 2010, 13:43,
2 replies)

Do you want fries with that?
I used to live in the St Paul's area of Bristol. The area made famous for the riots in the 70's. I deference to the large black population there was a statue of Malcolm X in a park near to my house. It wasn't on a massive plinth you could look him in the eye and his pose had him holding out one of his hands palm up and every Sunday morning for about a year there was a burger in his hand. I love to think of the guy getting "one for Malcolm" on the way home. I salute that particular loons dedication
(sittingduckAttention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 8 Oct 2010, 12:49,
4 replies)

Blasphemy
My fellow pupils at my convent school did a lovely line in modifying the many, many holy statues scattered throughout the place. The most regularly "improved" was a wooden statue of Mary with her hands held out in supplication to heaven. The gap between her thumb and fingers was ideal for making her "hold" things. She did the lot; a cigarette and a lighter, two condoms, chalk and a duster, a compass and a ruler... You get the idea. The one that still makes me giggle, however, was the memory of walking up the stairs one day to see the mother of Jesus brandishing two Shredded Wheat at passers-by.

Another school tradition was to hide behind the giant pieta in the entrance to the chapel and groan in a spooky fashion as first years walked by.

Obviously I did none of these things as I was too holy.
(Innogen, Fri 8 Oct 2010, 12:23,
Reply)

Legitimised vandalism
At the same school as my last post in this QOTW (but before being slung out) our headmaster interrupts his normal assembly address to ask for volunteers. Myself and a couple of chums slung up our arms, and were duly chosen for a special task - smashing up the sixth-form pool table, which was being replaced.

Given a selection of hammers and axes, we were told that we could do as we pleased, provided that the valuable slate came off in one piece. We merrily chopped, hacked, stomped, splintered, crunched and smashed our way through the next two school periods until we were left with a pile of woody bits, the coin mechanism (which I took home as a trophy) and the pool balls. The school groundsman came and set light to our pile of achievement, congratulated us (swore), and sauntered off.

Now, given that this great big blaze was on the same day as PE, half-empty deoderant cans were lobbed on the fire as soon as the groundsman turned his back. We were treated to a rippling CRACKcrackCRACKCRACKcrack as they went off in quick succession - broad grins were exchanged. We eyed the faux-ivory pool balls.

On the fire they went.

As we legged it to the safety of a hedge, we spotted the school badboi (innit) saunter up and add his deoderant can to the pile. He must have got the shock of his life – instead of one measly 'crack', he was treated to a juddering calamity of explosions as several of the plastic balls went at once. The other balls went off shortly after - neatly drowning out the headmaster's vitriol-filled ravings as he raced up to Mr Badboi and accused him of trying to blow up the school.

This was fun for, ooh, all of thirty seconds, before I discovered that my warm glow of satisfaction was in fact a slightly on-fire jumper.
(SimianKidis going to bugle you in your Friday hole., Mon 11 Oct 2010, 15:45,
1 reply)